Quality Time
by Valerie E. Mackin
Summary: She left them alone in the living room. She should have known better. Ninth in my Boondock Saints OC story arc. Rate M for language and mention of a rather naughty piece of reading material. A story resulting from another challenge by Rhanon Brodie, see Author's Note for more info.


_Quick Author's Note: Much like "Listen Closely," this story is the result of a challenge between Rhanon Brodie and me. Mine challenge was "Someone breaks or nearly breaks a bone." Hers was "an OFC breaking something." I have been informed that it will be out soon-ish, and the title will include the word "hands." Enjoy!_

"Unless one of you is fatally wounded or in actual, serious pain, you have one minute to give me a damned good explanation as to what I'm seeing here."

My pronouncement is met with twin stares of wariness and discomfort. The splintered remains of my coffee table are surrounded by a scattered mess of broken beer bottles, ripped magazines, and various other ruined debris. Murphy is clutching one of my newly laundered and folded shirts to his bicep, and Connor is holding one wrist in an awkward and painful position.

Inwardly I heave a sigh while maintaining an outward appearance of calm concern. This is what I get for a) having them both over at the same time; b) thinking they would leave the barroom behavior back at the actual bar; and c)thinking they could function on their own long enough for me to get a shower.

"You know, you guys do occasionally make it through whole evenings at McGinty's together without breaking anything. You couldn't make it through half an hour at my place?"

The both start talking at once, and the clearest story I can get from them is something about Murphy getting the bright idea to come join me in the shower. Connor, of course, felt it his duty to defend my honor against this unwelcome advance…That, and he liked the idea and felt he should do the honors himself.

"I told you both I'd be right back. I was seriously out of the room for six minutes! I didn't even have time to get dressed!" As I'm currently wrapped in a towel with my dripping hair plastered everywhere, they can't really argue with me.

"Um, lass? Not t'make this worse, but..." Murphy pulls my shirt away from his arm, and I wince at the large stain of blood spreading across the fabric.

I glance at the floor then back at Murphy. "Beer bottle or table shard?"

"Bottle," he admits, pressing the shirt back to his arm. I glance at Connor.

"Is your wrist broken?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Hard t'move, hurts like a bitch."

I take quick stock of the situation. "Alright, let me get dressed, and we'll go get you two checked out." I hold my hand up, cutting off their weak protests. "You are bleeding too much and might have something in the cut. And you, Connor…well, I've got enough first aid training to splint your wrist, but we need to find out if it's broken or not. So you two chill the hell out while I put some clothes on."

I turn toward my room then have very quick second thoughts. "Actually, I think I'll get dressed out here. God knows what would happen if I left you two alone again."

Murphy and Connor exchange guilty glances, and I suppress a brief pang of irritation at the state of my living room. I drop the towel and reach for the nearest pair of clean underwear. At least I was already in the middle of doing laundry. My back is to both boys, but I can feel their eyes on me, and I know what's probably coming.

Before either of them can say a word I snap, "I am currently reasonably concerned over both your well beings, and have no immediate plans to be otherwise. However, if you value your remaining limbs, do not make a single sexual advance or comment just now."

Silence.

Good.

I'm dressed in record time, and we're at the Emergency Room in under thirty minutes. There's surprisingly few people, so Murphy gets seen right away (he is the bleeder after all). This gives me a few minutes alone with Connor. He shuffles awkwardly in the hard plastic seat, shifting the bag of ice I insisted he keep on his wrist.

"Is it that bad?" I'm not averse to sympathy; I've just got to dig a little deeper tonight after seeing the disaster scene in my living room.

"I've had worse; just don't feel too good at th'moment." He sighs and leans back, squeezing his eyes shut as his head rests against the wall. His forehead is wrinkled, and I wonder if it's the pain bothering him or something else.

"You're not really worried about Murphy, are you? They're just making sure there's no glass in his arm, and then he'll get ten stitches, fifteen at the most." He nods, eyes still closed.

"Didn't mean t'damage yer furniture, lass. We'll—"

"It's just stuff. I'll clean it up, get rid of it. Makes the room feel bigger without the coffee table anyway. I just…" I trail off, wishing I hadn't started that last sentence. There was one thing under that coffee table I'm actually a little sad about losing. I know I shouldn't have had it under there, God knows why I did, but I'm sure as hell not telling the boys about it.

But of course Connor doesn't miss anything. Ever. Especially not when I've turned bright red and suddenly stopped talking about it.

Oh, blush, I've missed you so.

"Ye just what?"

"You two were really fighting over getting in the shower with me?" Must change subject _**NOW**_.

The corners of his mouth turn the slightest bit up. "Ye can think o'somethin' better t'fight over, can ye?"

Well, yeah. "God and country?"

"As neither o'those were callin' at th'moment…"

"My shower's pretty big. I suppose both of you would've fit." It's an offhand remark, I'm not even thinking when the words slip out, and it takes Connor's incredulous stare for me to realize what I've said.

_What the hell is wrong with me tonight?! Am I drunk?_

Connor clears his throat, eyebrows climbing, and says, "I'll be sure t'keep that in mind fer next time then, shall I?"

Shit. I don't think I can get out of this one.

We're quiet for a while after that. I mean, really, what can you follow that kind of conversation with? I put my arm around Connor's shoulders, letting him rest his head on mine. I start to wonder if he's fallen asleep, but that would be far too good to be true.

"Ye just what?"

"It's nothing, Connor, just something that was under the coffee table." I need to make sure and clean it up before they get a chance to see it, though.

"What was it? Ye know we'll replace it if—"

"It's nothing, it's fine!" Smooth. That's definitely the way to throw him off the scent: acting completely the opposite of cool and nonchalant. Connor picks up on the streak of anxiety in my voice at once.

"Are ye hidin' somethin' under that table ye don't want us t'know about?" I'm glad to see him smiling despite his pain, but why does it feel like it's almost always at my expense?

For once, coincidence is on my side, and Murphy's sudden appearance seems to be just the distraction I need. The relief on Connor's face is obvious when he sees Murphy alive and with all limbs attached. For just a moment, I marvel at the absurdity of their relationship: they'll beat the shit out of each other all day long, but the second something is actually wrong or someone else threatens one of them, that's it.

It's a wonder they have enough room left between them to let me in.

Murphy settles into the seat on my other side, and I immediately turn to him, glad of the change of subject. "Let's see the damage."

Murphy lifts the sleeve of his t-shirt, showing a medium-sized bandage covering the front of his upper arm. "Eleven stitches, no glass. Th'doc said t'take it easy an'keep it dry fer a few days, no worries."

I glance at Connor. "See? He's alive, no amputations."

I receive an exasperated scowl in return. The boys immediately decide they have important business to discuss that doesn't require me because the switch to another language, effectively shutting me out despite the fact that I'm sitting directly between them. Normally I wouldn't even pay attention except that whatever they're saying sounds different tonight.

"Is that…are you speaking Russian now?"

Twin smirks grace me with their presence, and Murphy deigns to answer me. "Well, y'were pickin' up on th'Spanish an'Italian too easily. We prefer t'save French fer…other types o'conversations (_Hello again, blush_), so we figured we'd try somethin' different this time. Good ear, by th'way."

"You know what would be different? Not keeping secrets from people, that's what." I'm cranky, so sue me. Neither of them are dying, my furniture and possessions have been destroyed, and now they're acting like twelve-year-olds who can't let "the girl" know what they're saying. It's like being excluded from a fucking secret club or something.

"Aye, Murphy, speakin' o'keepin' secrets, our girl here's got somethin' in her livin' room we mighta destroyed, an' she's a bit upset, but she doesn't seem t'want t'share as t'what it was."

I don't think I like being the center of both their attentions at the same time, not like this. I haven't been this embarrassed since the first night I met both of them when Connor introduced me to Murphy at the bar.

"Jesus, Connor, drop it. It's nothing, I've said that already."

"Lord's name!" Really? At the same time, guys?

The receptionist calls Connor's name before he can come up with a suitable argument as to exactly why I should share an inventory of my coffee table's former contents, so I'm at least saved that bit of fun. I am, however, left to deal with Mr. Dark, Smirking, and Smoldering.

"Awful lot o'red fer nothin'. Ye sure it's not somethin' needs replacin'?" Murphy murmurs.

The thought of even considering asking Murphy and Connor to replace…that…Oh, sweet Lord, I would never, and I mean _never_, hear the end of it. I think they'd put it on my tombstone if they could. The kicker is I know it's not even that big of a deal; they would just go out of their way to make it one.

"You think Connor's wrist is actually broken?" Changing the subject would probably go over better if my voice didn't squeak, crack, and require me to clear my throat.

Murphy grins, seeing through my façade quite easily. I'm extremely grateful when he decides to play along, at least for a little while.

"Nah. He didn't land on it all that hard. Yer table an' magazines got th'worst of the scuffle, especially when th'beer spilt. They'll probably do an x-ray, ain't our first time through here. Know some of th'nurses by name, actually." At my raised eyebrow, he hastily adds, "Th'older, granny-type nurses. Th'extremely unattractive, non-flirtin' ones."

Damn straight.

I yawn, slouching and squirming on the horrible seat as I try to find anything resembling a comfortable positing.

"Tired?" Murphy asks, sliding his uninjured arm around my shoulders. I don't even bother nodding as I drop my head heavily onto his shoulder.

"Shouldn't be here too much longer. Then we can head out."

"So, do we need to get some trash bags and duct tape on the way home?"

"What th'hell for?" Murphy is genuinely confused, and I have to laugh at the faint trace of apprehension in his expression. "Ye plannin' on disposin' of our bodies or somethin', 'cause I gotta say I think it mighta been simpler to go ahead and do that instead of comin' to th'hopsital."

Many entertaining and inappropriate (and slightly violent) comments about what I'd like to do with their bodies skate quickly through my mind, but I simply explain, "The doctor said to keep your arm dry for a couple of days. I figured you might want trash bags and duct tape to help with that."

"Ye don't want t'give me sponge baths?" Murphy whines, but he's laughing as I jam my elbow into his ribs.

"It's both of your stupid faults you're in this shape, you know. I think this was seriously one of your most pointless fights ever."

"Especially since we both coulda just fit in th'shower with ye t'begin with?"

I glare ineffectually at him. "Talking about people behind their backs in Russian is still rude, you know. And I didn't mean it like that! It was a verbal slip that shouldn't have happened."

"Weren't talkin' behind yer back, 'twas over yer head t'be precise. An' I think ye'll find t'was more of a Freudian slip than a verbal one."

"I think you're definitely talking yourself out of anything resembling a sponge bath." I am _unquestionably_ cranky at this point; I don't like being embarrassed, and Murphy is enjoying this way too much. To my surprise, though, he actually drops the subject with a quiet, intense, "I'll leave ye alone about it…_fer now_. Think of it as thanks fer comin' with us when ye didn't have to."

Before I can respond, Connor returns sporting nothing more serious than a wrist brace. Murphy and I stand as he heads over to us.

"What's the verdict?" I ask, gently inspecting the bandage on his wrist.

"Light strain, bent it a bit too far th'wrong way. I'm s'posed t'take it easy fer a week or so, no gymnastics or th'like. Tylenol if I need it."

"Nothing about keeping it dry?" I ask, thinking of Murphy's stitches.

"Nope."

"Good." I turn to Murphy. "There's your sponge bath buddy. Let's go." They exchange a knowing glance, and Connor gathers me to his chest, effectively cutting off more of my snarky comments.

"We know yer tired, lass, an' we 'preciate ye comin' down wit' us. We'll make up fer yer livin' room, on our honor."

Oh, I am such a bitch.

"Let's go back to your place, and I'll help you settle in for the night."

The ride and walk back to the boys' place is quick, and I actually do end up helping Murphy keep his arm dry while he showers off. By the time they've both moaned and whined their way through stripping and lying down, I am beat and ready to pass out.

"Ye know, there's room fer all of us down here just as well as in yer shower, lass," Connor teases as I kiss Murphy goodnight.

"Yep, and there's ruined magazines, broken glass, and beer all over my living room, not to mention a pile of fresh kindling courtesy of you two jack asses. Doesn't exactly put me in the mood for experimenting, to be honest."

They both make as if to get up, but as they're both damaged, I simply take advantage of their injuries to force them back down to their beds.

"That's cheatin'," Murphy grumbles, rubbing his arm.

"The doctors said for you two to take it easy. I feel like that probably means no pressure whatsoever on your respective wounds. So no cleaning, which I'm sure pains you both deeply. And as we tend to get a bit enthusiastic during sex on regular nights, I think it's best for both of you if I head on home for the evening, which I know for a fact pains you both deeply."

This announcement is met with twin pouts of displeasure, but I knew it wouldn't be a popular announcement when I made it. I sigh, but I'm not backing down this time. I brush Murphy's short bangs off his forehead, then glance over at Connor's sulky, tired eyes watching the two of us.

I swear, these two will be the end of me. "I'm glad neither of you are actually hurt despite your supposed ninja warrior skills."

"It'd take more'n this sorry motherfucker's got t'damage me fer real," Connor boasts tiredly, rolling over on his back.

"That's yer own ma yer talkin' about over there, dumbass…" Murphy mutters, but his eyes don't leave my face. Neither of them speaks for a minute, and I wonder if Connor's fallen asleep. Judging from the lack of snoring, I'd say not.

"Lass, about what ye said…y'know, about th'shower and whatnot…" Murphy's gaze is way too intent and intense for me, and my face flushes again as I glance away. "Is that somethin' yer interested in? I mean…I s'pose, if ye wanted…we could try…"

"I don't know," I answer too quickly. I'd be lying if I said the thought of the three of us _together_ hadn't crossed my mind (several times), but I am not in any way ready to admit that out loud to these two. No fucking way, and especially not tonight.

He tilts my face back to his and searches my eyes. "I ain't sayin' we're all gonna jump in th'sack t'gether t'night or nothin'. It's just somethin' t'think about, an' if ye want, ye only have t'say. Ye know that. An' like I told ye that first time, ain't gonna push ye into somethin' ye ain't ready for."

Oh, you beautiful man. You always know exactly what to say. I think my heart just melted a little, dammit.

"Yeah, I know." I smile as I kiss him gently. "That's why I lo…let you two piss me off so much…and I don't, you know, seriously injure you more often…" I trail off lamely, too shocked at myself to even blush.

Murphy's eyes widen as we both realize what I almost just said. He raises the hand of his uninjured arm cautiously as if he's afraid I'll bolt, and my eyes close at the pleasure of his fingers brushing down my cheek.

But the moment is too much: I'm afraid this is too fast for Murphy, who looks both pleased and conflicted; too fast for Connor, who I know is listening because he just twitched a little at my second slip of the night; and too fast for me, because if they freak out, I don't…I can't…

I have to go.

"Now hang on there, girl," Connor says suddenly as I stand. "Ye can't go ramblin' off alone into th'night. Might as well stay here, 'cause we're not lettin' ye go home by yerself."

But if I stay, I'm not sure any of us are ready for where the night may lead, emotionally or otherwise.

"I'm going down to McGinty's, and if Rocco isn't there or can't escort me home, I'll get a cab." They aren't exactly screaming protests, but I can tell this answer doesn't sit particularly well with either of them.

I ward off their imminent protests by reminding them, "Doctor's orders, boys. You know if I stay, neither one of you will take it easy. Do I really have to remind you every ten minutes? I can come over tomorrow after work, and I'll stay for as long as you like, but tonight I need to get home and clean up a rather large mess."

"Ye still aren't gonna tell us what it was yer so worried about that was under th'table, are ye?" Connor asks.

"Nope."

"Off wit'ye, then."

I kneel briefly and kiss Connor's sullen pout. "I'll miss you until tomorrow, too. Goodnight."

Ten minutes later, Rocco and I are on the subway and nearly back at my house. I was lucky: Roc had only just finished his first beer and was easily persuaded to escort me home. I'm surprised, however, when he offers to stay and help me clean up.

"Well, for one thing, it's the right thing to do," says the mafia package boy as he holds open a large trash bag for me. "For another, one or both of your boyfriends would kick my ass four ways to Sunday and still make it to church on time if they found out I let you do it on your own."

"Donna's home tonight, and you're trying to avoid her again, huh?"

"Yep."

We both bemoan the waste of perfectly good beer, cursing Connor and Murphy soundly for being such inconsiderate assholes, and we manage to avoid any serious injuries from the glass. The table is too far gone to repair and too big to bag, so we wipe the beer off the largest parts and set them by the door then bag the pieces small enough to fit in the trash.

Before I know it, Rocco's starting in on the magazines, and I have a sudden stab of panic.

"Wait!"

"Huh?" I've startled him, and he nearly drops the trash bag in his confusion.

"I just…uh…let me get those, Roc. Just keep the bag open, and—"

"Naw, I got this. They're all ruined, anyway, I'm just gonna trash 'em. You said somethin' about cleaning the carpet. Got any of that Resolve shit?"

I don't have a graceful or inconspicuous way to refuse, so I trudge off in search of my stain remover. I cross my fingers and as many toes as I can manage, praying he doesn't find the one magazine among the twenty or so I had stashed under the table.

I return to the living room a couple of minutes later and find Rocco sitting on the couch with everything off the floor except the damp spot where the beer soaked in. I have one second of glorious hopefulness; he isn't saying anything, so maybe that means—

_Son of a bitch_.

He's not saying anything because _the_ magazine is sitting in his fucking lap, and he's grinning so hard at me he probably couldn't get the words out if he tried. The damn thing's not even damp, and an uncomfortable mixture of relief and dread floods my stomach.

"It's….I…my friend left…oh, fuck it. Yes, I've got a fucking copy of _Playgirl_. So fucking what, Roc?"

"Yeah, and you have a bookmark in it, too. The fuck's that all about?"

Shit, really? All the stuff that ended up broken and trashed, and the damn bookmark is really _—really—_ still in place?

He opens the magazine to the marked page and studies the picture. "I thought dudes were supposed to get completely naked like the chicks in Playboy. What's the point if he's still got his pants on?"

"Why? You want to compare packages or something?" But I'm panicked, and my snark falls flat. Rocco knows he's got me cornered.

"Rocco, I will do any…No, scratch that. I will pay your back tab at McGinty's _and_ cover you there for the next week if you don't tell the boys about this." _Please, please, please_.

"Two weeks."

"Done!" Oh, thank God.

He squints, looking more closely at the picture. "Y'know, if you turn it to the side and look at it just right, the dude in the picture kind of looks like—"

"Thanks for all the help, Roc! I'll see you later, have a great night!"

He laughs but takes the hint. I get a brief bear hug before he heads out the door, still chuckling.

I think I've forgotten what the simple life is like.

Not too long afterwards, I'm brushing my teeth at my bathroom sink while the magazine stares a hole in the back of my head. I rinse, spit, and set my toothbrush in its cup before facing the glossy, offending collection of smutty paper.

"You almost got me in a lot of trouble tonight," I mutter. How is it I'm not single yet I'm still talking to a softcore porn rag in my bathroom as if it's going to answer me and solve all my problems? I flip idly through the worn magazine until I come to the photo Rocco was teasing me about.

It's a black and white shot of a man with shortish, messy hair standing barefoot in a bathroom wearing nothing but a necklace, a wrist cuff, and a pair of dark pants. He's leaning with one hand on the side of the sink, one foot crossed over the other, and he's staring at something below and behind the camera. There's nothing overtly sexual in the photo whatsoever, and yet it is without a doubt one of the sexiest pictures of a man I've ever seen. Hence the bookmark.

I wasn't lying when I said a friend left it, except that she left it on purpose because I'd drooled over that picture for a month or so (this was right before I'd met the MacManuses), and she decided I needed a man in my life, even if he was glossy and two dimensional.

Sighing, I open the cabinet where I keep tampons and other girly things offensive to the male species. It's the last place the boys would ever willingly look, and though it would be safer to trash the thing, I just can't bring myself to get rid of it. I smile at my ridiculousness as I shut the cabinet door.

"No other man is worth this much trouble, I swear."

_Author's Note: Okay, so I couldn't resist putting the magazine in. I know it was published something like seven or eight years after the movie was made, but still…I had to do it. If you get the reference, you get one hundred internet points; if not, just let me know in your review, and I'll PM you. I had so much fun writing this story, and the follow up will be just as funny (hopefully), and will include both boys. Also, I promise I'm not stringing you guys along with the promise of multi-chapters. They won't be huge, but they'll be longer than my normal stories, it's only that I keep getting these ideas…Blame the head, not me! Like I said at the beginning, this is a challenge fic from Rhanon Brodie like we did last time with "Yours and Mine" and "Listen Closely" (which led to my follow up "I'm Listening"). The follow up to this one will be called "Awkward Moments," and the magazine will be involved. Thanks so much for reading; please leave a little something in the box on your way out!_


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